


The Adventure of the Bulldog's Thumb

by twoseas



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual John Watson, Canon-Typical Content, Fluff, Getting Together, John gets a dog, Light Angst, M/M, Mentions of Dismemberment, Mentions of homicide, No baby, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Past Relationship(s), Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, all non-graphic, mentions of exsanguination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 00:38:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15206975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoseas/pseuds/twoseas
Summary: John Watson, unable to forgive Mary for shooting Sherlock, files for an annulment of their marriage. Despite his return to 221B, the man is not the same, too quiet and too surrounded by an aura of sadness. When a crime scene turns up more than just a corpse, Sherlock thinks he's got his John back (and a new puppy). When a leisurely stroll in the park turns up a past paramour, Sherlock thinks maybe he and John have some things to discuss.Featuring the arrival of Gladstone, Sherlock being jealous but mostly outraged at having missed something so monumental about John, and the start of a relationship that was two gunshot wounds, several murders, a faked death, a wedding, a separation, and a few confessions in the making.





	The Adventure of the Bulldog's Thumb

**Author's Note:**

> My original plan was an angsty introspective look at John after Mary shot Sherlock. But I am pathologically incapable of writing extensive angst so instead we got a happy puppy, the tiniest smidge of jealousy, and Sherlock being dramatic.  
> The title comes from the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle story "The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb." Honestly, I had to even though the plot has nothing to do with that story.  
> Also, the original character of Richard is based on Richard Armitage because I love him and also I ship Bagginshield. It's like a shipper easter egg. 
> 
> Please, enjoy!!

John had been unusually quiet since moving back into 221B. He followed Sherlock home from the hospital, went to his shared house with Mary for less than an hour the next day, and returned with a single bag and nothing else. Sherlock had only been out of the hospital a week (the bullet wound was still smarting when he forgot about his injury and moved the wrong way) when John filed to have his marriage to Mary annulled. He knew John had been in contact with a solicitor, but it was nonetheless a shock to hear. Particularly since they were still in the middle of their case with Magnussen. They were facing one of the most dangerous men they had ever encountered and John still found the time to get an annulment. 

The day after John filed for the annulment, Mary turned up at their door. 

Sherlock made a show of not paying attention, eyes fixed on his four separate laptops and phone. He typed with a speed that was frankly very impressive and his gaze moved from screen to screen with a manic sort of purpose that he sincerely hoped disguised his eavesdropping. 

John didn’t invite Mary in, instead blocking her entrance into 221B proper with his sweater clad form. Their voices were hushed, but Sherlock could still hear every word. 

“So you did that fast,” Mary said, her tone just a slight tremble away from nonchalant. 

“I know a good solicitor.” John’s voice didn’t shake, didn’t even sound hard or steely. It was a hollow sort of voice that Sherlock couldn’t recall ever hearing from him. 

“Do you now?”

“Sherlock solved a case for her.”

“Of course he did.” They both stopped talking and Sherlock’s fingers twitched over the multiple keyboards. Mary sighed. “John, I-”

From Sherlock’s peripherals, he could see John handing something towards Mary as he interrupted her. “Here, this is yours, I believe.”

A sharp intake of breath. “You looked through it then?”

“No.”

A wavering exhale. “Then why?”

“I don’t need to know about your past, Mary. Not to make this decision.”

“John-”

“You know exactly why, Mary.” There was no denying the finality of John’s tone, deadened as his voice was. “You  _ shot _ him. I had just gotten him back and you shot him.”

Sherlock’s fingers froze, his heart speeding up.

“John, I know, but I was there because I was trying to protect you.”

A harsh laugh rang around the apartment, John not even trying to contain it. “I know. You two are just alike. Always protecting me.”

“Please, just hear me out.”

“I heard you out plenty, Mary. Sherlock has taken your case, isn’t that enough? You should know better than anyone that this is the best you’ll get from me.”

“I...Goodbye, John.”

“Goodbye, Mary.”

John moved back into the apartment, closing the door on his now ex-wife. He paused, staring at Sherlock. With a lurch in his stomach, Sherlock realized that he never actually did start typing again. His fingers were still hovering over the keyboards, his eavesdropping incredibly obvious. 

John broke his hard stare with a faint sigh that deflated him, his posture slackening into something painfully like defeat. “Say it.”

“What?”

“Whatever you want to say, say it. Lord knows you never spared me your opinion before,” John chuckled a little sadly. 

“You didn’t need to leave her because she shot me. I forgave her,” Sherlock pointed out. And he had. She’d been protecting herself, caught in a bad place and desperate to keep her new life with John. She hadn’t even tried to really kill him, which went a long way towards Sherlock’s forgiveness. 

“Good for you,” John scoffed. 

“John, she could have-”

“She could have done a great deal of things, Sherlock,” John interrupted. He lost some of the defeat, his shoulders pushing back and his feet braced. Always a strong soldier. “Including talk to me. She could have asked for your help. She could have told me who she was. She could have, I don’t know, not shot you!”

“I think-”

“I know you’re all impressed because of how clever and dangerous she is,” John cut across Sherlock again. He clearly wasn’t in the mood to hear other opinions. “I get it. Even I’m impressed, God help me. As you’ve both been so smug in pointing out, it’s what I like. But this isn’t a game, Sherlock. This wasn’t some fun new adventure. This wasn’t a case. This is your life and Mary put it at risk.”

Sherlock swallowed, observing the way John stood, the increase in his breathing, the minute twitches and tells. He backed off. “I’m sorry, John.”

“Yeah, me too.”

John stomped off towards his room, barely concealing the tears that were spilling over. Sherlock’s gaze turned unblinking and unfocused. 

He heard a few pounds (knuckles against drywall), a pillow muffled scream, and then nothing. 

Sherlock closed his laptops and went down to Mrs. Hudson to ask her to bake John’s favorite biscuits while he got them takeaway from one of John’s preferred places. She pat him on the hand with a sad, kindly smile. 

“They’re already in the oven. I saw her come in.”

Sherlock left the building with a dramatic flare of his coat. It wasn’t quite so satisfying as usual. 

 

Two months later a bullet pierced through Charles Augustus Magnussen’s brain as he made his way into a charity gala. The next morning a check for John came in the mail from the sale of the home he had shared with Mary. The look on John’s face eclipsed the disappointment Sherlock felt at not having been able to solve the case himself. 

 

Sherlock swanned his way into the crime scene, rattling off insults and deductions with his usual aplomb. He resolutely did not change his behavior, knowing it would only make John upset. Despite all appearances, Sherlock was concerned. More than concerned. He was in something like a panic. John had not been like himself at all the last few months. He didn’t stomp about and complain about Sherlock leaving human bits in the fridge. He didn’t chastise Sherlock over his behavior towards clients or Scotland Yard. He didn’t date (while Sherlock was personally and selfishly glad about this last fact, it was still a matter of grave concern - before Moriarty, before Mary, John had been a prolific dater and flirt and not going back to his original ways had Sherlock worrying). 

He was still John, there was no question about that. He saw patients, he pushed food and tea towards Sherlock, he wore his lumpy jumpers and bland patterned shirts, he followed Sherlock onto cases and crime scenes and made exclamations of brilliance and provided Sherlock with a sounding board. 

But that was it. The funny commentary was gone. There was no more giggling at crime scenes. John stopped throwing cushions and bits of paper and popcorn at Sherlock when he deduced the ends of mystery and crime dramas. John was John but somehow diminished and it hurt Sherlock to see.

Having a heart had caused him discomfort before but now, as he floundered for a solution to get John back in the right spirits and did his best to look like he wasn’t dedicating the majority of his not insubstantial brain power towards that goal, he almost wished he didn’t have one. Almost. 

And so Sherlock waltzed about the back garden acting as if it were business as usual while Lestrade told John about the scene. 

“It’s a weird one. Body parts scattered all over the house and we haven’t found a drop of blood.”

“Exsanguinated before dismemberment,” Sherlock tossed over his shoulder. 

“Neighbors didn’t hear a thing.”

“But it is the victim’s house?”

“That it is. We’re thinking -”

Sherlock laughed disdainfully.

Lestrade was preparing what was sure to be an unoriginal scolding, but a member of the forensic team popped up in front of them, her lips tugged down in a frown. “I’m sorry, sir. But it looks like there’s a part missing.”

Lestrade closed his eyes for a second, breathing out. “Of course there is.”

“Every other part of the victim’s been accounted for, all but the right thumb.”

“Just the right thumb?” Lestrade’s brow rose up, incredulous. 

“Just the right thumb, sir.”

“Have everyone on the lookout for it,” Lestrade groaned, tiredness in the drawl of his voice, the bags under his eyes, and the slouch of his limbs. She nodded and made to inform other members of the team. Lestrade turned to Sherlock. “You think the killer’s keeping it as a trophy?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not at all.”

“And what has you so certain?”

“The fence has a gap in it.”

“So?”

“The gap is big enough to allow entry to any animal smaller than a collie.”

“Bastard,” Lestrade growled. 

“Is it just me,” John interjected. “Or is that flower bush wriggling?”

The bush was most certainly wriggling. 

A few of Lestrade’s people jolted in surprise as a muddy English bulldog puppy squirmed its way out of the bush. In its mouth was undeniably a human thumb.

“Get that dog!” Lestrade ordered, jumping towards the dog with renewed purpose and vigor. 

Lestrade’s minions ran at the dog only to cry out as it ducked and dodged past all of them. While the dog had no compunctions about trampling on a crime scene, the others had to take great care to avoid stepping on other parts of the victim’s body or destroying what could be evidence. The dog treated their desperate maneuvers like a very fun game, its stub of a tail wagging excitedly. 

Sherlock reigned his amusement down to a slight smirk, but then John started laughing. Really and truly laughing in a way he hadn’t since that day Mary came to 221B. Sherlock laughed half in amusement at the antics of Scotland Yard’s best and brightest and half in relief at hearing John finally,  _ finally  _ laughing. 

Lestrade made a swipe at the dog, flailing wildly as he missed and lost balance. The dog happily huffed what could be a bark through its mouthful of human thumb. Sherlock and John laughed even harder. 

The dog paused, waddling with surprising speed towards the two of them instead. Breathing heavily, the dog dropped the thumb at John’s feet and wiggled, eyes gazing up at John. 

“Is that for me?” John asked the puppy. 

The puppy woofed another happy bark followed by some noisy pants. It pawed at John’s shoe.

“Ok, ok.” John crouched down and smiled widely at the pup. He scratched behind its ears and the dog’s eyes closed joyfully. 

Lestrade, using the dog’s distraction to his advantage, reached for the thumb only to hear a high pitched growl. He froze. 

“I think the dog wants John to have it,” Sherlock pointed out with an innocent expression.

“John, if you don’t mind?” Lestrade grimaced. 

“Sure,” John chuckled, reaching out to the puppy regardless of the thick layer of mud that caked its fur. He glanced down. “Come here, clever boy.”

The dog snuggled into John’s embrace, making contented little snuffles as he was pulled against John’s chest. Lestrade grabbed the thumb with a silent snarl of distaste. 

“What a good boy,” John crooned to the dog. “Did you get that thumb all by yourself? Yes? What a clever boy!”

The dog looked positively ecstatic. 

“That monster is yours now,” Lestrade declared as a forensics person came over to claim the thumb. “I’m not dealing with the paperwork. Do I look like animal control?”

“What if he ate more evidence?” John asked without any real concern, too distracted by the puppy in his arms. 

“Only the thumb was missing, now it’s accounted for. That mutt is your problem, not mine.”

“Mutt! He looks like a purebred,” John noted, rubbing at the puppy’s head and ears and wrinkly little neck. “You’re a handsome boy, aren’t you? I bet some poor person is going absolutely mad looking for you.”

“Hardly, look at the state of him,” Sherlock noted. He pinched a bit of the dog’s skin between his fingers and glanced at his mouth. “Based on the mud and level of dehydration, he’s been wondering about for three or four days at least. And this is a nice neighborhood, well populated, friendly enough, and with few alleys and corners to get lost in. If there were any owners looking for them, they would have found him.”

John held the puppy up, grinning broadly. Sherlock felt a great swell of relief (and not a small bit of longing) at the bright expression. “Well, looks like you’re coming with us then.”

John walked off towards the street with a wave for Lestrade. “Let me know if you need the puppy in for questioning, Greg.”

“Hilarious,” Lestrade deadpanned. 

Sherlock swished his coat with relish and chased after John, yelling at Lestrade almost as an afterthought, “It was the stepson, by the way!”

 

Sherlock glared at Gladstone, silently demanding he return his pilfered item. Gladstone blinked. 

In the kitchen, John washed the dishes, humming an off tune melody. 

Sherlock would have been happier at this development (John hadn’t subjected Sherlock to his cheerful, off tune humming in months and months and Sherlock missed it more than he cared to express), if Gladstone wasn’t slowly but steadily compromising Sherlock’s experiments. 

Dishes done, John came around to the living room. Gladstone waggled his pleasure at the new arrival and toddled over to John, dropping the preserved ear at the man’s feet. 

“Another ear? Thank you, Gladstone.” John grabbed up the wayward dog with a wide grin and used his free hand to wrap the aforementioned ear with a spare nitrile glove before dropping it into Sherlock’s lap. 

Sherlock frowned at the now saliva tainted ear. “He’s ruining my experiments.”

“Don’t leave them out where he can get to them,” John countered. He dropped to the carpet, ruffling Gladstone’s neck before coaxing him into playing a stunted sort of game of tug of war with what looked like a tie Harry had sent him for his birthday. 

“That’s the third body part he’s brought you in the two weeks you’ve known him,” Sherlock sulked. “First the thumb, now my ears.”

“He just wants to play,” John cooed, ignoring Sherlock to instead dote on his thieving, science hating puppy. “Isn’t that right, clever boy?”

Crossing his arms, Sherlock tipped his head back and glared at their ceiling. “Oh, so if he brings you a thumb or an ear, it’s clever. I do it and I ‘ruined lunch’ or some other such nonsense.”

John laughed and Sherlock couldn’t help but soften. “Sherlock, stop acting jealous. You already know you’re clever. Gladstone needs the positive reinforcement.”

“He needs to stop stealing my ears.” Sherlock complained, but he had already moved on. It wasn’t as if Sherlock couldn’t work around the disruptions to his experiments. And he was rather fond of Gladstone too (he always did have a soft spot for canines). Besides, anything that made John smile and hum and laugh again was something Sherlock could appreciate and love himself. 

Gladstone dropped his end of the atrociously patterned tie and hopped a bit in place. 

“He needs out,” John pointed out, already rising from the floor and grabbing the lead. “Want to come with us?”

“I suppose,” Sherlock shrugged, secretly pleased to be invited out. He gave Gladstone a thankful pat on the head. 

“Come on, then.” John marched towards the stairs, Gladstone trotting beside him and Sherlock following up close behind. “Time for a walk with my two clever boys.”

Heart giving a little thud, Sherlock felt incredibly glad John was ahead of him. That way he couldn’t see Sherlock’s genuine, sentiment laced grin. 

 

The weather was fine and Gladstone was energetic, so they made their way to the nearest dog friendly park. They walked at a leisurely pace, the three of them taking in the rare bit of sunshine. Gladstone stopped to sniff here and there. He also took the time to greet a few other dogs that walked past. 

“Good boy, Gladstone. Look at how friendly you are. And such good manners. Unlike  _ some  _ people.”

“Yes, well, it’s not my fault she’s cheating on her husband.”

With an exasperated grunt, John glanced back at the haughtily retreating woman. “That doesn’t mean you should point it out. Gladstone was making a friend.”

“Gladstone needs to associate with the canines of a better sort of person than that.”

“He really couldn’t care less about the people, Sherlock.”

“Showing he has exceptional taste.”

“You’re impossible,” John laughed helplessly, throwing himself down onto a bench before letting Gladstone off his leash. The puppy wasn’t the adventurous sort, using his newfound freedom modestly. Sherlock hid a grin as Gladstone bit on a large tuft of grass that proved too tough to pull out, the dog chomping gracelessly at the green blades. 

Joining John on the bench, Sherlock looked around and saw what he could pick out from the other park goers. Most were uninteresting. A few adulterers, some people in love, training for a marathon, getting divorced, struggling student, recently fired, so on and so forth. Sherlock leaned back and sighed at the mundanity. 

He was lost in thought, considering what kind of dog friendly experiments he could run around the flat, when a stranger’s voice pulled him from his reverie. 

“John!”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. 

John rose from the bench, moving in close to the man. “Richard? How the hell are you?”

“I’m doing well. Just got back into London,” this Richard declared. “How’re you? God, what have you been up to? You look fantastic.”

“I’m good, really good. Even better now that I’ve seen you. I’ve got a dog now!”

Richard laughed as John gestured towards Gladstone. “You would get the most English dog out there. Where’d you get him? Shelter? Breeder?”

“Crime scene,” Sherlock drawled, inserting himself into the conversation. 

“Oh, sorry. Where’ve my manners gone?” John beamed up at Sherlock before training his gaze back onto this new person. “Sherlock, this is Richard. Richard, Sherlock.”

“Nice to meet you.” Richard’s smile faltered a bit. “Are you John’s...boyfriend?”

“Friend and flatmate,” John said a little too quickly at the same time Sherlock declared, “Partner.”

“Partner?” Richard cocked his head, turning his body towards John. 

“Sherlock’s a consulting detective, only one in the world,” John bragged. “He’s absolutely brilliant, but I help occasionally. Mostly I just write down what happened.”

“So when he says you got your dog at a crime scene?”

“He means crime scene. Gladstone snuck in through the fence and played havoc with the evidence.”

Richard was leaning a bit too close to John, so Sherlock snapped out, “He retrieved the victim’s thumb and dropped it in front of John.”

Richard gave a little start before laughing jovially. “Sounds like your kind of dog, John.”

“He’s great,” John agreed, smirking winningly. 

The conversation lulled into Richard and John just smiling at each other stupidly. Sherlock was about to snap out his deductions in interruption only for a chiming noise to beat him to it. 

“I’m so sorry.” Genuinely apologetic frown in place, Richard pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen. “It’s work. I have to go.”

The two men both looked exceedingly disappointed and Sherlock was tempted to just leave in a dramatic huff. But he had some words for John first. 

“Maybe I’ll see you around?” Richard asked John, eyes wide as he awaited John’s response.

John nodded eagerly. “If you aren’t sent off to Berlin or who knows where else, hopefully.”

“It really was wonderful seeing you again, John.” Richard put his hand on John’s shoulder, his thumb brushing the exposed bit of skin at John’s neckline. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. 

The other man left, looking over his shoulder and responding to John’s lingering wave with one of his own. 

Waiting until Richard was just out of earshot, Sherlock rounded on John. “You had sexual relations with that man!”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John hissed. “Lower your voice.”

“You did!”

“Doesn’t mean the whole bloody park needs to know!”

Sherlock took a step back. “So you have.”

“Can we not discuss this here?” John pleaded through clenched teeth. 

“Yes, we very much will discuss this here. As well as on our walk back. And in the flat!” Sherlock vehemently exclaimed, spinning around and speed walking back in the direction of home. 

John clipped Gladstone’s lead back on and chased after Sherlock, the dog happily trotting with him. As soon as they caught up, Sherlock spun off his observations. Too agitated to delve into his usual detail, Sherlock bit out the most obvious and damning deductions. 

“He’s military, obviously. Most likely counterintelligence now. As soon as you saw him, you moved into his personal space - you’re familiar. You both gave each other the ol’ up and down and immediately complimented each other. When he realized I was there, his good mood soured - disappointment. He couldn’t help but ask after your relationship status. You immediately clarified our relationship in the most transparent of terms - friends and flatmates, close but not romantic. His mood instantly brightened until the disappointment of his own work related departure. Even so, he said his farewell by looking you in the eyes - pupils dilated - and putting his hand on you. A hand on the shoulder can be friendly, but his thumb stroked your bare skin at the base of your neck - intimate. You’ve had sex with him!”

Sherlock pointed at John in dire accusation. 

John closed his eyes and sighed, pace picking up as they grew closer to home. “I will not discuss this out on the street.”

“We-”

“No,” John cut him off sternly. “You might be comfortable shouting out to Queen and country all about sex, but I am not. Some things are private. This is one of them. We will talk at home.”

They walked the rest of the way to 221B in strained silence, Gladstone panting at their side. 

When they arrived, Mrs. Hudson stepped out her door. 

“Not now, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock spat. 

“I never!”

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” John ground out. 

She shut her door on them, a displeased moue in place. He’d have to apologize by being particularly nice later.

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, working himself up until he entered their flat and dropped himself into his chair. “Well?” He demanded, making a dramatic sprawl of himself. 

John ran a hand over his face. “What do you want me to say, Sherlock?”

Gladstone ignored the tension between the two, wobbling off to the fireplace to sleep off the exhaustion of his walk. 

“I demand you admit to your actions!”

“Jesus Christ,” John groaned. “Yes, of course I slept with him.”

Sherlock gawked at his open confession (despite demanding it), sputtering out, “B-but you- not gay!”

Sinking into his own chair, John slouched and spoke to their ceiling more than Sherlock. “I’m not.”

“You  _ just  _ admitted-”

“Both, Sherlock. I like both.”

Sherlock hunched in on himself. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Sherlock, you nearly gave yourself a fit when you realized I was flirting with you at Angelo’s,” John muttered. Sherlock felt his cheeks heat at the reminder of their early meetings. “You were the most interesting person I’d ever met and I wanted to know you and you were offering me an excellent place to stay. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable and miss out on either of those chances. Of course I played it straight, so to speak. I’m frankly astounded it took this long for you to realize it.”

“You never slept with any men while I was around or even wanted to. I would have seen them or saw the clues,” Sherlock pouted. 

John chuckled, a tired series of puffs. “Of course not, you were around. Besides, I’ve always been more attracted to women than men. I like them both, but I lean more towards women.”

Sherlock took note of the first part of John’s explanation, turning over his tone and phrasing. He needed more data. “How many?”

“Excuse me?” Sitting up, John became lively enough to give Sherlock a scandalized expression. 

“You heard me,” Sherlock complained. “And you know how much I hate repeating myself. How many, John?”

“A few?” John rolled his eyes. “My lab partner back in school. A rugby mate. Actually, two rugby mates. Not at the same time! Different times. A Canadian doctor I met in Afghanistan. Richard would’ve been the last and that was before I was shot and came back to London. What does it matter?”

Sherlock stared down at his hands. “Are you going to have sexual relations with this Richard person again?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” John frowned, nose scrunching. “Damn, I forgot to ask for his number.”

Sherlock glowered at the rug before raising his gaze to John’s face. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

John started so hard he choked, coughing and sputtering until he was red faced. “W-what?”

“You said you really were flirting with me at Angelo’s when we initially met.” Sherlock counted off in his mind all the times John could have been showing signs of attraction towards him - things Sherlock ignored or dismissed for one reason or another. This revelation put certain interactions into new light. “You mentioned not wanting to have sex with other men because I was around. I am one of the few serious relationships you’ve managed to maintain-”

“Thanks for that,” John grouched under his breath. 

“And the main reason you left your wife was because she shot me,” Sherlock plowed on ruthlessly. “You have forgiven a great many people for a great many things, John. You’ve forgiven our lies, our deceits, our selfish and careless behavior. You let me get away with faking my own death for two years at the low price of a bit of bruising. But you couldn’t forgive her for shooting me. Why?”

John didn’t answer, instead setting his jaw and looking away from Sherlock’s scrutiny. 

“John…” Sherlock barely breathed. Shock, surprise, and hope hushed his voice into something gentle and rumbling. “Are you in love with me?”

John didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. Sherlock read everything about him and sprung from his chair. 

“You stay right there,” Sherlock ordered, already disappearing into his room. 

Rummaging around his drawers, Sherlock found the thick stack of papers hidden under other various scientific detritus (notes, equations, charts, and the like) and smiled gleefully at the clip bound set of notes. 

Bounding back to John, who was looking lost and confused, Sherlock dropped the stack of papers into his lap. As John grabbed the papers, Sherlock remained at the side of his chair, hands fidgeting behind his back as he rocked back and forth on his heels.

John stared at the thick bundle of handwritten notes. “Sherlock,” he managed slowly. “What am I looking at?”

“My notes and research!” Sherlock declared delightedly. “I’ve been collecting the data for years.”

“Data on...?” John flipped through, eyes scanning the pages but not comprehending what they meant. 

Sighing deeply, Sherlock reached over and pointedly tapped the bundle of notes. “Us.”

“Us?”

“Do keep up, John,” Sherlock moaned. Sliding to sit on the arm of John’s chair, Sherlock hid his own nerves with his rambling explanation. “You’re being particularly slow today. Us. When you first moved in, I started to notice a few changes in both of our behaviors. Naturally, I was intrigued. So I began taking notes and organizing a few informal experiments.”

“All of your experiments are informal,” John mumbled, reading a page somewhere in the middle of the thick stack. “Is this really a page dedicated to what kind of takeaway I order us?”

“There are several,” Sherlock corrected before grabbing the notes and turning to the desired page. “If you’ll take a look here near the end, you’ll see why I’m showing you this now.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Sherlock, this just says ‘SENTIMENT’ in all capital letters with angry underlining that’s been pressed in so deep I think you cut through the paper.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock crowed. “After I realized what I was feeling was in fact romantic feelings, I was understandably distraught. But I decided my usual methods of coping weren’t going to do me any good. Just before Moriarty and St. Barts and all that mess, I started using my collected research to work on  _ this _ .”

Sherlock leaned a little more into John’s space and turned the page before pointing proudly at the neatly written words. John gasped. 

“Sherlock,” John whispered. He paused and swallowed audibly. “Sherlock, this…”

“The title could’ve used a little work,” Sherlock hummed. “‘A Thorough and Unbiased Analysis of the Reasons John and I Should Enter Into a Romantic Relationship’ doesn’t really roll off the tongue. In my defense, it was a rough draft. I hadn’t even gotten around to organizing the data in a comprehensive and persuasive manner for presentation. Since I was operating under the belief of your heterosexuality, I was going to include a few studies on the fluidity of human sexuality with a focus on later-in-life sexual experimentation as well as some graphs comparing the benefits and importance of emotional and physical intimacies over sexual intimacy. However, I think you’ll- Oof!”

Sherlock found himself pulled into John’s lap, strong arms wrapping tightly around his midsection. 

“You are,” John mumbled into his back, arms giving Sherlock a tender squeeze, “quite possibly the most ridiculous man I have ever met.”

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Sherlock couldn’t help but look down at the hands resting against his stomach. John’s hands were splayed, fingers stretched and palms flat, as if he were trying to maximize the amount of Sherlock he could touch. Sherlock cleared his throat. “Does this mean you found my presentation both comprehensive and persuasive?”

“Not particularly comprehensive, no,” John laughed. Sherlock could feel the warm air of John’s breaths through the fabric of his shirt. “But yes, very persuasive.”

“So you won’t be seeing anyone else, not even Richard. Just me,” Sherlock clarified. 

John’s arms tightened for a moment. “Sherlock, if it wasn’t for the fact that I have a terrible record for marriage and my annulment is still being processed, if you wanted me to marry you today, I would.”

Sherlock moved his own hands around John’s, slowly and carefully making their fingers interlock. He rather liked how they fit. “Mycroft can always hasten your annulment along if you’re willing to risk his company. I don’t recommend it, but Mummy’s always been partial to winter weddings so it’s something to consider. Gladstone can be the ring bearer.”

“He might eat the rings,” John pointed out. At the fireplace, Gladstone’s paws twitched as if he were running. 

“Flower dog?”

“He doesn’t have any thumbs.”

“He had one,” Sherlock corrected. “Lestrade took it away.”

John cracked up, his full body laughter shaking Sherlock along with him. “God, I really do love you.”

Sherlock turned around in John’s arms, meeting his eyes for the first time since their mutual revelation of feelings. His eyes were wide and wondering, full of awestruck affection that had something in Sherlock warming. Throwing one leg over the arm of the chair, maneuvering the other leg between both of John’s, draping one arm over John’s shoulders, and using his free hand to keep one of John’s hands tightly laced with his own, Sherlock let himself sprawl over John’s smaller frame, taking up as much John-space as he possibly could as he settled in and got comfortable. 

“That’s excellent news, John, as I find myself in love with you as well.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft did in fact speed up John's annulment and also had Richard sent to Berlin. Such is his power.


End file.
